


the world brand new

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-08 20:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15937403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: "Jamie and Thierry's Excellent Adventure.""I'm going to see him, you melt. He's not going anywhere. It'll only be my adventure."





	the world brand new

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> Dearest recip! I hope you like this. <3
> 
> TECHNICALLY the plotline is fucked because Thierry didn't become Bordeaux manager after all...but let us pretend!

" _Jamie and Thierry's Excellent Adventure_."

"I'm going to see him, you melt. He's not going anywhere. It'll only be my adventure."

"You've got to put his name in, though. People'll only read it if it's got his name in."

"What, am I not famous enough?"

"Don't think that many people watch Thomas Cook advertisements, mate."

Jamie wishes for the eighth time that morning that Carra had been the one leaving Sky instead of Thierry. Or, failing that, he wishes that he'd just gotten a ride from work instead of accepting a lift from the Scouse Twat Extraordinaire. Carra grins smugly over at him like he's intent on becoming more of a melt than Jack Whitehall.

"You can just do it first and think of the name later, innit?"

"I s'pose," Jamie sniffs. "Bit unprofessional, though." And if there was one thing Thierry Henry reeked of with his sharp suits and manicured fingernails and impeccable accented English, it was professionalism.

Well. That and Supreme Bangability, but Jamie would never say such a thing out loud, and least of all to someone as completely obtuse as Carra.

" _When Jamie Met Thierry_ ," Carra suggests through a mouthful of M&Ms, proving every single misgiving Jamie's ever had about his namesake.

"Isn't that what you've been calling every single one of yours?" Jamie scoffs. " _When Carra Met Xabi. When Carra Met Noel._ Get a better imagination, mate."

"I'm a Liverpool fan," Carra says cheerfully. "My imagination is impeccable."

"Didn't know you could use such big words."

"Why, is that one not in _My First Dictionary_?"

If his life hadn't depended on not jumping out of a moving car speeding along an expressway, Jamie would have seriously considered it.

 

*

 

It's one of those cut and dry things: they send only him and a photographer, he's there for the day looking at Thierry's set-up and talking to his ugly mug, and then they've got him on the night flight home. Nice little side feature in case Mourinho doesn't say something incredibly stupid for a week and they have to find something else to fill in.

Easy little thing. Straightforward little thing.

Thierry opens the door and Jamie scrunches his face up just to combat the sudden rush of affection that spills into his stomach.

Inevitable, really. The amount of time they'd spent slagging each other off in Sky's dressing room - Jamie's capacity for the word _Invincibles_ had reached its breaking point long ago - or holed up under the same red umbrella when it rained at games led to only one conclusion, except that Jamie was too much of a chickenshit to admit it.

Hadn't even realised it, really, until Thierry had mentioned that he was popping off to sodding France and Jamie had been left with Paul Merson and an increasing sense of existential crisis that was only a little to do with Paul Merson.

At this point he'd have liked to say that he'd embarked on some grand romantic gesture to win the heart of his one true love. The truth was closer to lying on the sofa watching Netflix and stuffing himself with crisps his dogs had slobbered all over, and then being sick in the toilet.

"Are you all right, Jamie?" Thierry cuts into his thoughts with the expertly feigned concern of a man who'd spent his life in the media. "You have just been standing there for five minutes without saying a word."

"What?"

"Would you like to come in?" Thierry has the smuggest smirk on his face. "Or are you going to do the interview standing on the doorstep the whole time?"

Jamie grumbles and shoves his way past Thierry, who dodges his shoulder with all the grace he used to display on the pitch. That the man still looks like he could walk into Arsenal's team - and not just because of Arsenal's lack of quality - is truly infuriating.

Dave the Cameraman is already sat on an armchair inside, fiddling with his narky camera with more enthusiasm than anyone should have for inanimate equipment. They greet each other, they sit down, and Jamie looks studiously at the list of questions he's (Sky's) prepared.

_Why did you choose to make the leap into management?_

_Is there a difference in thinking when you're a footballer, pundit, or manager?_

_How do you see the game as having developed since when we used to play?_

Christ but they're boring. Jamie looks up; Thierry's still watching him with a smile, softer now, expectant. Hands folded in lap. Shoulders square and attentive. The perfect interview candidate.

Jamie stuffs the paper back into his pocket and throws Thierry a grin. "How've you been, big man?" he says, reaching out to clap Thierry on the arm, and Thierry laughs and sinks into his grip.

 

*

 

The interview goes stupidly well, though of course Jamie knew that it would. The thing about Thierry is that doing anything with him never feels like a _job_ ; Thierry doesn't pretend to like anything he doesn't, and his earnestness is infectious. There's something very charming about someone who genuinely believes everything they say, even if what they say tends to err on the side of sweet footballer nothings.

To be fair, someone with the pedigree and accent of Thierry didn't have to come up with anything of substance. He was, Jamie thought as he listened, the only person who could produce an audiobook of Rooney's autobiography without putting people off.

"Should we go to the stadium," says Dave the Cameraman, "get some shots of Thierry stood outside and that?"

Thierry turns his ever-obliging smile towards Dave, whose Northern dourness immediately wilts like Carra's in the face of Disney costumes and whipped cream.

"Yes, why not? I'll drive us there."

They pile into Thierry's car, which is some terribly slick Mercedes in a colour you only picked if you were a teenager or an old man. "Thierry, mate," Jamie says, affronted on its behalf, "a car this nice doesn't deserve to look like this. S'like buying a Rolex in the shape of Mickey Mouse, y'know?"

"Or creating the perfect footballer and giving him the face of Robbie Fowler," Thierry returns swiftly, eliciting a gleeful chuckle from Dave the Cameraman. Jamie liked him better an hour ago.

Bordeaux's stadium is all art deco and very modernist in a way Jamie isn't sure he likes, although to be fair his taste is firmly crumbling English stadiums in the 1980s. "It's got too many columns," he sniffs, as if there were a limit on the number of columns a stadium should have, or even if there were, as if he would have known it.

"I bet," Thierry says, "you cannot tell me if these are Ionic or Doric columns."

Jamie perks up. "How much d'you wager?"

"Five pounds."

" _Five pounds?_ Mate, I know Arsenal lived in the past, but that wouldn't buy me a cuppa nowadays."

"All right, twenty. Are they Ionic or Doric?"

"Doric," Jamie guesses, since it sounds like Doritos and he's always thought with his stomach than with his head anyway.

"Neither," Thierry says smugly, pulling out the lip wiggle that makes Jamie want to punch him every single time. "They are just sticks, aren't they?"

And he trots off to oblige Dave the Cameraman with his slick, earnest poses, every inch the professional. Jamie leans against the ugly car and shakes his head watching. He's known Thierry for, what, years; has seen this play out a million times. On the field and off. Thierry's like - a cloud that you can't get to the middle of, and between his great moods and affability there seems to be something always just out of reach.

 

*

 

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"That was fast."

"Why, wanted it to be longer?"

"Perhaps." Thierry laughs. "It was more fun than my day job, let me tell you."

They're back at Thierry's house; Dave the Cameraman, ostensibly delighted with his day's work and the autograph he shamelessly asked for, pops off to the airport in a Uber or whatever exists in Bordeaux (perhaps just a disgruntled Frenchman looking to complain about Macron). Jamie sits on the sofa and stares at Thierry, wondering what to do next.

Probably summat stupid, like snog him. So it's just as well that Thierry smiles and says, "let me at least drive you to the airport," because he wouldn't have known or been responsible for whatever he'd have done next.

"Not in that bloody car," is what he says instead.

 

*

 

By the time they get to the airport it's half-dark and raining, big fat drops smacking into the windshield of Thierry's Other Car that was somewhat more tasteful and as a result probably not chosen by him. Jamie makes a small noise of consternation when Thierry pulls into the carpark instead of the drop off point.

"Of course I'm sending you off," Thierry insists, rolling his eyes at the expression on Jamie's face, which he imagines has assumed the traditional British arrangement of _you really don't need to_.

"You really don't need to, mate. I'm a big boy, I can take my own planes."

Jamie hopes there exists some alternate universe in which he never utters the words 'big boy' out loud.

"Well, _big boy_ ," Thierry shoots back, which really makes everything worse, "I just want to say goodbye to a friend. Is that so bad?"

"No." Jamie makes a helpless motion with his hands that probably translates to _god I don't know what I'm doing_ in at least three non-verbal languages. Thierry, apparently satisfied, parks the car and walks Jamie all the way to the counter, his very sleek hands in their very sleek pockets making no signs of distress whatsoever.

The British Airways staff on duty is apologetic, as is the default mode for any British Airways counter staff. "I'm afraid the flight has been cancelled," she says with an air of having repeated this at least a thousand times over the past week. "All flights have been grounded because of the rain. We should have another flight out tomorrow. I can ring you a nearby hotel if necessary?"

"Oh," says Jamie quite stupidly, at the same time as Thierry takes over the conversation as if he'd always been the one having it.

"That would be lovely, thank you."

And before it even registers in his brain, Jamie's sat in some penthouse suite on the top floor of a hotel and Thierry's humming as he puts the kettle on.

Perks of managing the city's club, Jamie supposes. Rather helps if you're handsome and famous and French, and had actually won the world cup instead of the league cup, a trophy so inconsequential no one had batted an eye when it'd been renamed something no one could remember anyway.

Helped if you'd actually played the game too, or whatever, but Thierry's making him tea so Jamie reasonably decides this isn't the time to split hairs.

"I've ordered room service," Thierry says cheerfully, coming to sit beside Jamie on the sofa. "You're paying, of course."

"That's the Thierry I know," Jamie rolls his eyes, grateful for the momentary distraction from _why are you still here not that it's a bad thing but Why_. "Always looking for a free ride. Are you sure you scored any goals or were those all Bergkamp's?"

"Did you actually play football or were you just modeling stretchers?"

"Very original, mate. Come back onto _League of Their Own_ , they've made that joke so many times you'd fit right in."

They chat shit without getting banged till the room service comes, some kind of French beef wellington with accents that can't possibly be pronounced, even if Thierry tries to get Jamie to anyway.

" _Pâté de Pâques._ It's simple. It's one of the simplest things."

"Why'd you stick on an s when you aren't even gonna pronounce it," Jamie complains.

"It's like 'park' without the r," Thierry persists stubbornly. "Come on."

"How d'you say 'fuck off I'm eating' in French?"

" _Pâté de Pâques._ "

"Fuck off, I'm eating."

Jamie doesn't want the meal to end, to be fair. Part of it is Thierry fucking off forever after this - Jamie doesn't imagine managers have a lot of spare time to entertain their perpetually injured ex-colleagues - and the other part is that it's just nice, this. Like going out for pints after show, joking about Arsenal's trophy record, doing stupid things. Not having to _think_ to enjoy themselves. Shoving each other around. That stupid thigh touch with the wrong Jamie.

S'just nice. Sometimes you don't have to explain why you like a person, and all, you just do. So Jamie eats his pate de park and grins at whatever Thierry's saying, horribly fond without knowing why.

 

*

 

"Well," Thierry says.

"Well," Jamie says.

"Thank you for dinner," Thierry says.

"S'not like you gave me a choice, big man," Jamie says.

Thierry laughs. Waves, whistles down the hallway while Jamie closes the door behind him.

 

*

 

And he'd have gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for those meddling carparks.

There's a knock on the door just as Jamie's getting ready to conk out and when he gets it Thierry's standing there, embarrassed.

"Sorry. They've locked my car up. They really should tell you there's security concerns in advance, or that some ambassador is staying here too, or more about the stupid rain - " Thierry pauses in his monologue because he's probably only just noticed Jamie's conspicuous lack of clothing.

Jamie, as it happens, has only just noticed it too.

"I was - " there are times Jamie flounders for words, like with hard interview questions or trying to pronounce El Shaarawy, and this is one of those times. "Gonna sleep."

He's got boxers on. And Thierry's seen him shirtless before. Granted not in the context of a seedy hotel room, and not after Jamie had come to terms with his Feelings, but, y'know. Precedent.

"Oh." A strange calm has come over Thierry's voice. "I was wondering if I could stay here, since I seem to be stuck."

"Uh." Jamie opens the door slightly wider to let Thierry in, trying to be as blasé as possible in the hopes that he could play off the state of affairs. "Sure."

"Thank you." Thierry smiles at him. "I can take the sofa."

"There's no need - "

"Unless you are suggesting we both sleep on the singular bed."

The following pause is so pregnant Jamie's half surprised there aren't suddenly babies crawling all over the floor.

"I was going to suggest I sleep on the sofa instead," he says eventually and lamely. "I don't mind. Y'know."

"Oh," Thierry says. "Yes. Of course. I got what you meant."

"Since there's, like you said, only one bed and all. And we can't both fit."

"Yes. I see."

"I mean, I suppose we could both fit, if we tried."

"It is quite a large bed."

"And it would probably be more comfortable than the sofa."

They stop to look at the sofa, and exchange conspiratorial glances.

"Much more comfortable than the sofa," Thierry affirms.

"You could probably get your own room," Jamie points out, almost as an afterthought. "It's not like you can't afford it."

"I could."

"But it's more economical to share."

"It is."

"Saving the earth and all that."

"One room uses less electricity than two."

"All right."

"Well."

They troop to the bedroom, where Jamie's already turned the sheets down and most of the lights off. In the half-darkness he can still feel Thierry's eyes very firmly on him, which isn't an out-of-the-ordinary thing really, except it seems like the mood's shifted.

"You've been eating more candy since I left," Thierry says, disguising whatever's also in his voice with amusement.

Jamie feels his cheeks flushing hot. "Have not. S'just the shadows."

"Not an insult. You have a very good dad bod."

Jamie pulls a face.

"And you look exactly the same since Highbury, you wanker."

Thierry has shrugged off his suit jacket and is in the middle of unbuttoning his white cotton shirt. He glances up and grins. Jamie glances down and wants to bury himself.

"I've got a tummy now. Too many fries in Belgium."

Very firmly, and very politely, and very much still focused on the ground, Jamie says, "I'm gonna take the right side, if you don't mind."

"That's fine," Thierry says amiably, and Jamie wraps himself in the sheets like it's a suit of armour.

It isn't, because Thierry soon gets in on the other side, and then they're lying there staring at the ceiling like the very bad poster of some very bad romcom.

Jamie can hear Thierry breathing in the stillness of the hotel room. He's never liked hotel rooms, he thinks, sourly. Too quiet. Like the steady hum of the air conditioning reminds you that there's someone else in the same room and you're too much of a chicken to talk to him.

In the same bed, to be fair. Semi-naked and whatever.

Jamie thinks _well fuck it_ and rolls over on his shoulder to face Thierry. Thierry's reciprocal move is agonisingly slow and for a minute Jamie isn't sure how he's going to take it, moving like a bloody glacier.

"I've got to tell you something, mate," Jamie says when Thierry's finally on his side looking at him. They're in uncomfortably close proximity and it is fucking killing him.

"Yes?" Thierry says, trying - and failing - to look serious. You'd think from his expression that Jamie was putting on the bloody circus or something. Jamie would punch him if he didn't want to also kiss him.

He takes a breath.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Can I kiss you please."

Jamie blinks.

"What?"

"Or s'il vous plaît, if you would prefer."

" _What?_ "

"Can I kiss you, s'il vous plaît?"

"Wh - "

Today seems to be Jamie Does Things Without Initially Registering Day. One minute his mouth's open with the blank confusion of whatever poncy French phrase Thierry's trying to use, the next his mouth's open with Thierry's poncy lips pressed into his skin, warm and wonderfully close.

He doesn't stop to think. He's never stopped to think and it's resulted sometimes in shitshows, i.e. over the bar oh dear me Redknapp, but this time it might even be a good thing. He breathes in and shifts closer, puts his hand on Thierry's face, thumbs across the cheekbone. Thierry murmurs something, reaches down under the sheets, fingers tracing over Jamie's ribs.

In the dim light of the hotel room intimacy seems expected. Jamie moves to Thierry's neck, shoulder, savouring the heat of his skin, feeling Thierry arch back tense. Chokes back a moan as Thierry raises his leg over and straddles him, grinding down. Can't remember how to speak. His fingers reach for the hem of Thierry's boxers. Fuck, Thierry mutters, breath hacked out in sharp pants. _Merde._

 

*

 

Jamie's far too awake to go to sleep, so he flicks on the telly and surfs the channels. BeIN sport is showing one of the games from '98, which is right typical. He hadn't played in that  one - his hamstring or ankle or something else he couldn't remember. When you spend that much time in the hospital everything blends together after a while.

France - Saudi Arabia. It's just past half-time and Thierry's already scored one. On screen he's still got hair and the shirt's far too baggy for him. But he runs like he'd never get short of breath.

Jamie turns and looks at twenty-years-older Thierry, who's splayed out on his side of the bed with his arms stretched behind him and his eyes half-closed.

"You were right," Jamie says.

"Hm?"

"You do have a tummy now."

"Va te faire foutre."

"Fuck does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"You're a melt, you know that?"

Thierry flicks his eyes up to meet Jamie's and give him a lazy, insolent grin.

"Yes, I know."

Baggy-shirted Thierry has slotted another one past the keeper. In 1998 he runs towards the corner flag, stares out solemnly, and the crowd rises in thunderous applause.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title from Billy Joel's [The Night Is Still Young](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/billyjoel/thenightisstillyoung.html)  
> \- Carra's interviews are really named summat along that line...get some originality Carra  
> \- Unfortunately they took the [El Shaawary](http://www.thickaccent.com/2013/02/21/ruud-gullit-hilarious-as-jamie-redknapp-cant-pronounce-el-shaarawy-video/) video down bUT IT WAS SO STUPID REDDERS U SO DUMB.  
> \- [France 4-0 Saudi Arabia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEqbxXlVbVE) \- Thierry scored twice  
> \- Va te faire foutre - go get fukt, I think?  
> \- Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
